


Proud of thy bondage

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, BDSM, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Breathplay, Caretaking, Challenge Response, Collars, Developing Relationship, Dom!Sherlock, Dom/sub, Dominance, Feeding, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Ownership, Painplay, Power Play, Sub!John, Submission, Threesome, Total Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness and safety</p><p>Or: Apparently Sherlock thinks the logical next step after Baskerville is to put a collar on John.</p><p>Or: Sherlock is an asexual dom and John a sexual sub and they are both REALLY into Total Power Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If ever thou be'st bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mintchocolate_gelato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintchocolate_gelato/gifts).



> For the Breaking the Sex Mold Challenge.
> 
> Cel's prompt was: "I want to see Sherlock and John in a 24/7 D/s relationship. Life where even the smallest of details are based on their consensual power exchange, they both like it that way. I want to see how they deal and interact with others while still subtly maintaining this power exchange."
> 
>  
> 
> mazaher, emmadelosnardos and exbex were all brilliant last minute betas without whom this fic would not have been possible. Thank you so much, ladies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage._   
>  William Shakespeare, All's Well That Ends Well, Act II, Scene III

It starts like this:

 

“Why aren't you angry at me?” Sherlock asks about a week after they’ve returned from Dartmoor, turning around so he can see John's face in the pale light of a winter afternoon.

 

John shrugs. “Would me being angry at you convince you not to use me as lab rat without my consent in the future?“ He asks, but his voice isn't angry. More....amused. Huh. 

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You like it,” he declares. 

 

John's breathing stops for a moment and then resumes in a rhythm that is so even it must be forced. “I like what?” He asks, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the newspaper he’s reading in his favourite armchair.

 

“That I consider you mine to experiment on,” Sherlock says with confidence, watching in fascination as John's ears turn red at the tips. 

 

“Um,” John says and finally looks up at Sherlock, who is standing in front of him.

 

Sherlock can't help but roll his eyes. “Oh, please,” he says with exasperation, “the first week we met, I asked you to come from across the city and send a text for me and you _did_.” 

 

If possible, John flushes an even deeper red. He is stubbornly looking at an edge of the fireplace now but then he nods and says hoarsely, “Yeah, I did.” 

 

“Hm,” Sherlock says and flops in his own armchair to flip through an autopsy report.

 

 

 

It takes John a bit to realise it but in the days after this exchange, subtle changes begin to creep in between them. There’s a lot less politeness – not that there ever was very much in the first place – to the way Sherlock asks, no, _orders_ John to do things for him. Them. Himself, even. The change is very gradual and John doesn't think anyone but him even notices, which says something about how they’ve been functioning so far. Jesus. Apparently he is the most transparent sub in the history of asexual male/male D/s relationships. (Yes, he has started to do research. Yes, it has turned him on, even though this isn't a sexual thing for Sherlock. Of that he is fairly certain.)

 

He is still unprepared for the casual way in which Sherlock suddenly drops a collar in his lap one evening as he walks past, completely out of the blue. It is broad, made of supple brown leather and has a buckle that looks for all the world like it's genuine silver. He stares at it as if it might bite and by the time Sherlock has returned from the kitchen to fix him with an intense stare that’s turning his changeable eyes ice-gray, John has only progressed as far as carefully touching the tip of his index finger to it.

 

 

 

 

As Sherlock attempts to open the front door on a freezing winter afternoon, the collar keeps banging against his wrist, heavy in its small bag. It is, of course, custom made. Of course it is, it has to be. Unique, just like John. The front door finally opens with a protesting squeak, the hinges still adapting to the plummeting temperature. As Sherlock ascends the stairs he is surprised to realise that his breathing is faster and his heartbeat more irregular than this simple exertion warrants.

 

It seems he is nervous, after all. Ridiculous. This is a symbol, a token, nothing more. 

 

And yet - “Symbols are important, Sherlock,” he can hear Mycroft's mocking tone from across the years, can still see him standing under the Christmas tree in his ridiculous knitted slipover, “they carry emotional weight and they are signifiers for invisible relationships. Do you understand?” Sherlock snorts at the memory, at the ridiculous uproar his six-year old self had caused at the time because he had dared to use one of Mummy's silver rings in an attempt to make silver nitrate. But he has to admit that his meddlesome older brother has a point. Why else would his hands be sweating? He is asking nothing more of John than to make formal the arrangement they are already living by and yet..... and yet.

 

When he enters the flat, John is sitting on the couch, watching football. He gives Sherlock a brief nod of acknowledgement and then returns his attention to the screen. Sherlock, however, stops in the doorway for a moment to marvel at the fact that John can look so _ordinary_. As he sits there in his cardigan and slippers, a bottle of cider in his hand, he could be any one of a thousand British blokes watching the telly of an evening. An everyman, that's what he looks like. 

 

Which is, as Sherlock well knows, a blatant _lie_. He has never met anyone as fascinating as John Watson and few as deadly. John is an entrancing combination of kindness and lethal precision, of danger and domesticity. Most of all, however, John is _HIS_. John has given himself to Sherlock as freely and easily as one hands over a pound coin in exchange for a packet of sweets. 

 

The thought makes something dark and intense well up inside him, a savage desire to _own_. To have all that efficient violence, that uncompromising morality and baffling warmth at his fingertips to use as he sees fit.

 

But then, that is what the collar is all about.

 

Sherlock takes it out of the bag and then casually walks to the kitchen, dropping the collar into John's lap as he passes him by. He draws himself a glass of water from the tap and then turns around. 

 

John is staring at the collar in fascination – the football game entirely forgotten, Sherlock notices with satisfaction – and, as Sherlock watches, he cautiously brushes the tip of his finger against the leather and looks up.

 

Sherlock sets aside the water glass that has suddenly become a useless prop and walks back into the room, something hot and dangerous coiling in his belly.

 

“Sherlock – ” John says, interrupting himself and then seemingly unable to finish whatever he was about to say. He starts again, his wide blue eyes fixed on Sherlock's face in a gratifying manner. “Sherlock, what the fuck are you playing at?”

 

Sherlock grins in a way, he knows, that aspiring novelists like to call wolfish. It is all incisors and intimidation. All provocation and assertion of dominance.

 

At the same time, there is a nervous little voice at the back of his head that tells him this could all go South. It is entirely possible that John's compliance was based on them never verbalising the strange arrangement they have created between themselves. 

 

Which is precisely why this _is_ necessary. Sherlock needs to know, needs to hear it from John's own lips that John is _his_ , unequivocally and unconditionally. That it is he who gets to own and shape and use that powerful, dangerous weapon that is John Watson.

 

“Don't be coy, John, it's tedious,” he says, carefully measuring out the ratio of annoyance to disinterest and scorn in his voice.

 

John takes a deep breath and wets his lips and for a moment Sherlock cannot help but follow the glistening, pink tip of his tongue.

 

“Sherlock....are you – ” John interrupts himself once more but resumes more quickly this time. “Are you asking to collar me?”

 

Oh, really. Sherlock rolls his eyes in annoyance. “No, John, I am merely asking you to admire the craftsmanship of this collar which I am intending to use on an entirely different sub who I have kept hidden form you all these months. _Of course_ I am asking to collar you.” The anger feels good, reassuring even and so he lets it bubble away inside himself.

 

John nods, his eyes flitting away for a moment. When he finally looks Sherlock in the eye again, his face shows the steely resolve Sherlock so loves. 

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

“Yes?” Sherlock asks, breathlessly.

 

“Yes,” John confirms, “yes, I will let you collar me.”

 

And Sherlock simply has to step forward, has to grip John forcefully by the hair and pull back his head so he can kiss him, deep and savage. His left hand comes to rest on John's throat, gently, his fingertips brushing the pulse point he can feel fluttering underneath the smooth skin. John sighs deeply and opens his mouth, content to let Sherlock devour him for a moment.

 

Soon, however, he pushes Sherlock away so they can lock gazes again, both now panting a little. 

 

“I want a contract,” John says and Sherlock must have looked a little surprised because John elaborates, while still holding Sherlock's face in both hands: “I've read up on this sort of thing and there are contracts. Which we both sign. With safewords and limits. And....rules for punishments.” John goes a little breathless on the last bit and Sherlock makes a mental note of the fact that this is an aspect of their relationship he should definitely explore.

 

 

 

If they were at all conventional about any of this, John thinks, this is where they would have had intense and deliciously painful sex but he has long accepted the fact that there is nothing conventional about being with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, he knows, wants to possess and command a lot more than he wants to come and while their play is nearly always sexual for John, Sherlock rarely pays any attention to this component of their scenes. It's a good thing John gets off on being denied.

 

What does happen, in the end, is that they make out like this for a while, John reclining on the couch and Sherlock bending down over him, nipping and biting at his lips while his left hand slowly and gently pushes down on John's windpipe with an inexorable heaviness that has him hard and leaking despite his best intentions.

 

Only for a moment, though. Then, John sits up, dislodging Sherlock in the process and digs out his laptop from the avalanche of old newspapers beside the sofa.

 

“Right,” Sherlock says, “contracts.”

 

They spend about an hour poring over the sample ones John has saved on his hard drive. John has a pretty clear idea of what he wants – an open end to the contract but a trial period of a month at first, the right to stay in contact and visit whomever he pleases, the certainty that Sherlock will be responsible for his health, his physical and mental well-being. 

 

“I don't like this part,” Sherlock says, his brows drawn together and his lips thin.

 

John takes a deep breath and leans back against his arm of the couch, trying to make his whole body say _Well, you can fuck off then_. “Yeah, I don't care,” he says, desperately trying to sound as if he means it. “My family is not up for negotiation. And neither are my friends.”

 

Sherlock is still glaring daggers at him. “You hardly have any friends,” he snaps. “And I would, of course, let you visit your family at appropriate times.”

 

This is Sherlock expressing love, John knows. But it's also Sherlock being insecure as fuck and John will be damned if he is going to let him get away with that. “This is not negotiable, Sherlock. Full stop.” He makes sure that his voice carries both his annoyance and his absolute resolve. He might be signing a contract to be Sherlock's 24/7 sub but he isn't some kind of empty-headed doormat.

 

They stare at each other for a bit and then Sherlock finally shrugs and says, with a nonchalance that is fooling nobody, “fine. No contact clause.” And then, to John's surprise: “I want a safeword.”

 

“We already have a safeword,” John points out. It's “Baskerville” and neither of them has used it yet.

 

“Not that,” Sherlock says, with a sweeping gesture of his right hand. “A relationship safeword.”

 

“Oh,” John says. He hadn't thought about that but now that he does it makes a lot of sense. Neither of them has ever done this before, after all, and it is always good to have additional safety measures.

 

“Pink?” He suggests, thinking of beginnings and following Sherlock into danger, and Sherlock grins at him delightedly, his eyes suddenly blue again rather than gray.

 

 

 

When he wakes up the next morning, John is surprised to realise that he feels different. And yes, one reason for this might be the fact that he is actually curled up at the foot of Sherlock's bed. 

 

Sherlock hadn't insisted after making the suggestion, had simply looked at him keenly, obviously excited to see how John would react to this first break in the routine of their previous life together. In the end, John had bowed his head and crawled in between the ends of the covers. It should have felt strange, humiliating even, but all he did feel was a sense of rightness and belonging, a fact he chooses not to analyse.

 

As he steps into the kitchen now, he can hear noises from the bathroom which is why he yells in his best commanding officer voice when he sees something blue bubble in his favourite army mug.

 

“Sherlock! What the hell are you doing to my mug? We had a strict agreement that my stuff is off limits for experiments!”

 

_Custom addition: The submissive retains the right to yell at, badger and otherwise browbeat the Dominant about matters such as cleanliness, respect for tedious social conventions and other topics, as long as it is in keeping with the tradition of this relationship._

 


	2. The more things change...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I want to put myself absolutely at your mercy for good or evil without any condition, without any limit to your power._  
>  Leopold von Sacher-Masoch

So, in many ways things don't really change and the ways in which they do – well, John can't say he expected all of the consequences.

 

There is the evening John is sitting in his armchair, reading, when the door bangs open and Sherlock strides in carrying two enormous paper bags with a logo John doesn't recognise but which has the words “organic” and “whole foods” in it. Together with the green leaves flopping over the top of the second bag, they are a pretty good indication of what just happened but John still can't help himself.

 

“You did the _shopping_?”

 

Sherlock dumps both bags on the kitchen table and fixes John with a curiously intense stare.

 

“Organic produce, chicken, whole wheat pasta,” he says as he takes each item out of the bag and lets it thump down unto the kitchen table, making the petri dishes jump.

 

“Whatever for?” After all, their normal cuisine is more along the lines of white bread and baked beans. 

 

Sherlock glares. “I've looked into your nutrition and it is, frankly, appalling, so I developed a diet plan for you. You will find it next to the sink.”

 

John tries to clear his head by shaking it but the scene is still the same: Sherlock standing next to two bags of assorted groceries and pointing at a _diet plan_ he made for John, for fuck's sake. 

 

The image only lasts a moment before Sherlock turns around and heads out the door again, calling over his shoulder: “I'll be spending the night in the lab.” And then he is gone.

 

John shakes his head once more for good measure and then gets up to unpack the shopping. It's only when he is putting away a pound of tomatoes that look like they've cost a fortune, that he realises what is going on and then the realisation bolts him to the floor for a moment, his spine rigid and his ears ringing. He looks at the diet plan taped to the wall, which looks eerily similar to the one he remembers their rugby coach handing out at uni, and stretches out a hand to trail his fingertips over the smooth paper.

 

The thing is, Sherlock is careful with his possessions. Oh, not with things in general. He leaves books open on chemical stains that eat through the pages and carelessly uses elegant silk scarves to test the spreading velocity of blood stains. But these are just things he has accumulated over the years, much like a planet attracts space junk. His _possessions_ , the few things he considers truly his, however, he maintains painstakingly: the violin, the antique syringe he uses when he shoots up. These he treats with almost savage care and a single-minded attention to their needs. 

 

John's fingers are shaking slightly as he puts the things away in the fridge and he finds himself absentmindedly fingering his everyday collar, a thin leather band around his neck which holds Sherlock's signet ring. He suddenly feels _precious_ in a way he hadn't imagined possible.

 

Of course that doesn't change the fact that it's still John who does the cooking – and the cleaning and the tidying and the laundry – that much hasn't changed. In fact, remarkably little has. They still run around London's side-streets and subterranean tunnels in pursuit of criminals who tend to be heavily armed. They still eat Chinese take-away at least once a week and Sherlock still leaves John at crime scenes where he gets to exchange sarcastic comments with Lestrade. In other words, they still solve crime, Sherlock is still an obnoxious bastard and John still blogs about it.

 

It's the little things that are different, really. For example, John finds himself sleeping more. And eating healthier meals. Because Sherlock has decided that John functions at his optimum when he gets at least seven hours of sleep per night. Because Sherlock read up on the subject on nutrition, developed a meal plan according to John's physical needs in their current lifestyle and then _went and did the shopping_ (no, John is not going to get over that any time soon).

 

He tries to tell himself that really this isn't much different from his army days when his mealtimes and nutrition, his sleep and his exercise regime where regimented for him by Her Majesty's Army. But he knows, as he jogs along the quiet streets of central London early in the morning, his well-rested and well-fed body eating up the miles more easily than it has in months, that this is completely different.

 

Sleeping when and where Sherlock tells him to, eating what Sherlock puts on his diet plan, exercising at the times Sherlock appoints for him, he feels as if Sherlock owns him down to the very cells of his body. Sherlock, he thinks, is shaping him, the same way a smith shapes a blade and with the same intention: To make something beautiful and deadly. A happy shiver runs down his spine at the thought.


	3. The issue of sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thou art to me a delicious torment._   
>  Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays and English Traits

There is the issue of sex, of course. They have never really talked about it in any sort of detail – they are both British males, after all – but John is fairly certain that Sherlock doesn't really do sex. Apparently, however, he does consider it a physical need for John, which places it squarely into Sherlock's domain of responsibility. Sherlock being Sherlock, he ends up finding a rather unique solution for the problem and John is really, really not complaining here.

 

The club is crowded as they make their way to the bar, squeezing past blokes in assless chaps and girls in tight latex dresses. With Sherlock's hand heavy on his shoulder, steering him through the crowd, and the bass thumping in his ears, John can feel himself sliding into the familiar trance-like state of subspace and he sighs with contentment. 

 

They fetch up against the mahogany surface of a surprisingly posh bar, the edge of it digging into his bare chest as Sherlock presses up against his back to address the bartender over John's shoulder. It's loud enough that he can't really hear what Sherlock is saying but even so he knows what the order will be: a glass of water for Sherlock, who never drinks when they're out like this, and a bitter for John. 

 

Drinks in hand, Sherlock navigates them over to a corner from which they have an unobstructed view of the dance-floor. Sherlock leans against the wall and John slides smoothly to his knees, practised enough by now that he doesn't spill a drop of his pint. From down here he has his own particular perspective, the movement of shoes and legs to the music making a pattern he is familiar with by now: There is Lucy who never seems to come to these parties without at least two of her subs and whose stiletto pumps are currently weaving an intricate pattern with a pair of handcrafted men's dress shoes as well as a some delicate women's sandals as all three of them take up the tango rhythm the music has changed to. He can feel Sherlock's fingers drum the beat against his skull from where they are resting in his hair but his foot under John's hand is reassuringly steady. 

 

He takes a sip of his beer and looks up to see Sherlock scanning the crowd. With a shiver he remembers their mission and tries to follow Sherlock's gaze, though without success. 

 

 

 

_Recently, Sherlock had looked up from the paper he was reading in his armchair and said as nonchalantly as John had ever heard him: “I think I should use you to fuck a pretty girl next time we go out.”_

 

_John, who had been working on his blog, had only narrowly avoided spitting milky tea all over his screen and had turned to look at Sherlock in astonishment, blurting out: “You're into women now?”_

 

_Sherlock had given him a disdainful look. “Don't be thick, John, the woman isn't the point. Me using you is.”_

 

_John had swallowed, feeling himself grow hard. “Oh.”_

 

“ _Uh-huh,” Sherlock had said, already distracted by some article or other, “exactly.”_

 

 

 

And here they are. Suddenly, John can feel Sherlock's body tighten against him and when he looks up he realises that he has made eye-contact with a woman John has never seen before. She is tall and rather broad and gorgeous in a blood-red crushed velvet dress. Right now, she is stalking towards them in a way that reminds John of nature documentaries and tigers making their way through the underbrush. 

 

A little thrill runs through him as her gaze comes to rest on him and he bows his head a little more in what he hopes is a graceful gesture of yielding. She smiles approvingly and he hums in pleasure at the sweet thrill of bending to the will of not just one but two doms at the same time. Then Sherlock's fingers tighten painfully in his hair reminding him sharply whom he belongs to. As if would be able to forget. 

 

The music is loud enough that he can only hear snatches of the conversation going on above his head but what he hears is encouraging and then Sherlock's hand moves to the broad leather collar, the original collar that he gets to wear to these events. John finds himself pulled to his feet and stumbles a little gracelessly. He steadies himself against Sherlock's hip and then Sherlock turns him around and positions him so that John's back is resting against his chest, John's hands pulled back and held against the small of his back in order to push out his chest. 

 

Lady Clarissa, as she has introduced herself, has taken a step back and is examining John from head to toe as coldly as if he was a nothing more than a slab of meat on a butcher's block. He is tempted to hold his breath but forces it out instead and looks her directly in the eyes. 

 

She raises an eyebrow and steps forward to resume her conversation with Sherlock. “He is pretty enough,” John hears her shout against the thump of the bass, “but a bit cheeky. How well do you have him trained?” 

 

He can feel Sherlock shrug against his shoulder-blades. “Well enough to give you a good fucking,” Sherlock yells back. 

 

The domme throws her head back for a full-throated laugh and John has no idea if it is just the headspace or her bearing but he finds her devastatingly attractive. “I could use a little sextoy for the evening,” she is now mouthing at Sherlock, “but I don't lease goods without inspection. May I?” 

 

John feels the dip in Sherlock's body that says he is nodding and before he has time to prepare himself, she has taken a step forward and is cupping his prick through the tight leather trousers which are the only thing he is wearing apart from the collar. Her grip is firm but gentle as if she really is measuring him down there and John can feel himself growing hard. 

 

Then she steps away and gives an appreciative nod. “He will do,” she concedes. “What were you thinking of?”

 

John has to admit that he zones out a little on the actual negotiation of roles, hierarchy and privileges. It's one of the benefits of the submissive role, being able to leave the “paperwork”, as it were, to those inclined to it. Instead, he concentrates completely on the way Sherlock's hand is encircling his wrist, on the pain where the bones of his hands are ground together in a gesture that says _mine_ loudly enough to make John want to strain just a little to intensify the feeling.

 

In the end, to John's disappointment, Sherlock lets him go and they make their way back out through the press of bodies with their odour of sweat, leather and PVC. They have to wait while Lady Clarissa gets what must be a rather expensive imitation fur coat from the cloak room and Sherlock's arm is a warm, tight band across his chest as they watch her flirt with the girl behind the cloakroom counter.

 

“Do you like her?” Sherlock whispers against his ear and John nods, because he isn't _blind_ , for God's sake.

 

“Good,” Sherlock hisses, “because you would have to fuck her whether you did or not!”

 

John shivers happily at that. This might be about providing his body with some much needed sexual release, but Sherlock is still the one who is in charge. John has never quite understood the nature of the enjoyment Sherlock gets from these nights but he knows that it does provide a kind of satisfaction which is beyond the sexual.

 

During the short taxi ride, there is some sort of conversation going on between Lady Clarissa and Sherlock but John is oblivious to anything but the two pair of hands which are already roaming over his body as he reclines against the seat, his naked back sticking slightly to the leather seats. Her nails are somewhat longer than Sherlock's and deliciously sharp as she pinches his nipple and earlobe and it is only his military discipline that keeps him from voicing an embarrassing squeak as she digs them into his crotch. Sherlock, a solid presence on his right side, has two fingers twisted into the band of his collar and keeps tightening and loosening it in a rhythm that is both maddening and unpredictable, choking him in increments. 

 

By the time they get to Baker Street, John is more than half hard and there are black spots dancing before his eyes. They flow together into solid blackness when he climbs out of the car and attempts to stand upright, but the Lady catches him by the arm and prevents him from braining himself on the kerb and a headshake later his vision is clear again.

 

They hustle inside and then there is some drawn out and rather delightful painplay which has Lady Clarissa wielding the riding crop like a pro while Sherlock gives directions and John melts into a moaning, yelping heap of pleasure-pain. This, however, is only part of the excitement for the evening.

 

The exciting part begins after they have cleaned him up a little and then Lady Clarissa gets naked. In what seems like no time at all, John finds himself stretched out over her, holding himself up on his forearms with the tip of his cock just teasing her opening. Both of them are still breathing heavily from the flogging she just gave him and he can feel her small but perfectly shaped breasts push against him with every heaving breath while the welts pull and smart deliciously on his back. He can't wait to sink himself down and in, to feel her body against his own, to – 

 

But Sherlock is standing right next to them, his grip on John's neck tight and unforgiving. His other hand is resting on John's ass, ready to shove and dictate his rhythm and depth as he fucks Lady Clarissa exactly to his specifications. Or hers. John isn't sure anymore whether they had talked about this, whether Lady Clarissa is a switch who gets off on being controlled by Sherlock the same way he does or whether Sherlock is carrying out her orders and he _does not care_. All he is sure of, all that matters is that Sherlock has him, entirely, and is going to use him as nothing more than a living tool to provide Lady Clarissa with pleasure. The idea already has him panting and sweating, his entire body suffused by the feeling of yielding, of being somebody else's, of being _Sherlock's_.

 

“Now,” Sherlock says, and John does his best to follow the rhythm his hands are dictating, to slow down and speed up exactly as he is directed to.

 

Sherlock hisses into his ear: “You aren't fucking her, John, I am. You are nothing more than the condom on my prick, a human dildo. You're my tool and I am fucking her using your body.” 

 

He mewls at this, would have thrown his head back as a wave of almost unbearable arousal courses through him, but Sherlock's iron fingers are keeping his head bowed and his rhythm steady, right up until the point when he can feel the Lady convulse around him. 

 

No sooner has she crested the first wave of her orgasm, her tightening body threatening to pull John along with her, when Sherlock pulls him out and away from her with brutal yank so that John crashes to his knees next to the bed at the exact moment she moans out the last of her climax.

 

John can't suppress a groan as he lands painfully on the floor, and the transgression fetches him a stinging slap to his cheek as Sherlock walks past him to the wardrobe. 

 

He has barely steadied himself and taken in the fact that Lady Clarissa has turned to her side, her hands still busy between her legs as she fixes him with an expectant stare, her face flushed with pleasure, when Sherlock returns with the choke collar in his hands that is the source of many of John's fantasies. 

 

Its links are cold against the skin of his neck and John shivers slightly at the danger of it – it's easy to do damage using a choke and he knows they both enjoy the heightened sense of drama this creates. He hears rustling behind him and then Sherlock bends down and whispers against his ear: “You did well John, really well. I almost let you come. But we both know that nothing gets you off the way this does, don't we?” 

 

John attempts to nod because, God, yes, nothing is as intense as this, nothing else quite matches the choke's sense of danger and total domination, but even the slight movement of his neck causes the chain to tighten. His breathing becomes laboured and he can hear Sherlock chuckle behind him. 

 

“So pretty,” Lady Clarissa murmurs, raking her eyes up and down his body, from the red lines they had scored into his skin earlier to the collar that is now tightening inexorably with every breath John takes. 

 

His pulse is racing, and the black spots are back, dancing before his eyes as his arousal climbs and climbs. He can see her hand speed up between her legs as she nears her second climax of the evening, can feel Sherlock's hand tightening the collar and his own prick jump in anticipation and then, finally, Sherlock leans down again and whispers “Come!” He pulls the choke tight enough to cut off John's breathing entirely and John comes, comes, comes, jerking and choking as he skirts the edge of consciousness.

 

For a bit there is nothing but the roaring in his ears, the stars bursting behind his lids and a vague sense of floating calm. 

 

When he draws his first breath again after what feels like an aeon, he realises that he is lying on his side and has somehow been moved to the bed. There are voices at the edge of his hearing and now that he concentrates on them he can make out words – “...really very lovely evening, thank you...” “...can give me a call if you like...” – that tell him Sherlock is saying good-bye to Lady Clarissa in the hallway. God, he must have been out of it for a fair while. He burrows into the covers with a satisfied sigh relishing the little darts of pain where the blankets catch on his welts and cuts, feeling utterly sated.

 

Moments later he can hear Sherlock enter the room and then the mattress dips and he shivers a little as Sherlock draws away the covers.

 

“Fuck off,” John mutters, already half-way to sleep.

 

Sherlock snorts and a moment later John yelps as cold fingers begin to apply cream to the tender spots on his back.

 

“Seriously,” he grumbles into the pillow, “fuck you.”

 

“Mm,” Sherlock says non-committally as he continues to smooth the cream over John's back, “Lestrade sent a text, you know. There’s been another body.”

 

“Ungh,” John replies intelligently because really, asking him to care about cases right now is a little much. Not that that has ever stopped Sherlock.

 

“Yes, it seems that the murderer is killing men living in North London as well but we should be able to track him once we know the colour of....” Sherlock's voice is smoothing out into a soothing kind of background noise as John drifts closer and closer to sleep with each exhalation. He simply lets it happen, lets the comfortingly familiar rumble of Sherlock's deep voice enfold him, the talk of evidence, autopsies and genetic fingerprinting becoming a familiar and bizarrely beloved lullaby in the background. Just before sleep claims him, Sherlock moves one of his hands up to grip John's neck in a hold that is both fierce and gentle and a sentence floats up from the depth of consciousness and memory _Most welcome, bondage, for thou art a way, I think, to liberty_. Shakespeare, he thinks, a smile tugging at his lips and then all is darkness and safety.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All my knowledge about TPE relationships and the London scene comes from books and the internet. I tried to keep as many conventions of the scene as seemed plausible for these two but don't take this as a realistic portrayal of how these things happen in real life, okay? And if you think I have misrepresented the practices and conventions I write about, let me know, I am always happy to learn.


End file.
